


Someone In Your Corner

by Loverlylo



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Underage - Freeform, kind of-- nothing happens while Ginny's in high school except her crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loverlylo/pseuds/Loverlylo
Summary: When Ginny Baker is 17, she gets invited to an MLB-run training camp for high school ballplayers. While there, she meets none other than her favorite player and longtime crush, Mike Lawson.Mike Lawson, recovering from an injury, helps coach at the annual high school camp, and is blown away by a young pitcher he meets. He becomes a sort of mentor, offering her advice as she attempts to make it to the show.Or, what if Mike was able to help Ginny as she came up through the minors? if she had someone offering her the support and experience needed to make her hard road just a touch easier?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea of Ginny meeting Mike before her father's death has been stuck in my head for months, and I've only just gotten the courage to write it.
> 
> Also note that while this is a Bawson fic, Mike and Ginny now meet when she's 17 and he's 30, so nothing happens between them until she's older and this meets up with the start of Pitch.

There were some things Ginny Baker never expected to hear. Her brother saying he was excited for homework. Her mother giving thanks for baseball. Jordan asking if had the coloring to wear periwinkle. Most of all, though, she never expected to hear her dad say she’d accomplished something. “We ain’t done nothing yet” was his motto.

So when he came into her room, grin on his face, saying “You did it, baby girl”, Ginny thought she’d ended up in another dimension. “If you mean my math homework, then, yeah, Dad, I did it. If not, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her dad held a letter out to her. “I’m talking about how Guinevere Baker has been invited to attend the MLB’s Future All-Stars summer training camp. 50 outstanding high school players picked, and you’re one of them.”

“What?” Ginny screamed as she took the letter. “Everyone goes to this camp. A-rod went, Barry Zito went, Sabathia. They want me?” She could hardly believe her eyes. The kids invited to Future All-Stars were, well, future all-stars. There were no pity admittances, no letting in the girl for publicity. This would only happen if major league scouts thought she’d make it to the show.

Ginny’s dad hugged her tightly. “Of course, baby girl. The MLB knows talent, can see you’ve got drive, and they want to help you polish your skills. We’ll miss you like hell, but it’ll be worth it.”

She grinned, already imagining the camp. Two and a half months of baseball, playing in front of scouts, maybe making some friends. Jordan was great and all, but if she ended up with more than one, that’d be alright with her. “I heard they have major leaguers come in. You know, players on the DL, or ones in town for games. Pops, what if I meet Mike Lawson?”

Pops grinned back. “Ask him to sign the rookie card you keep in your wallet. Maybe don’t mention that you kiss it before every game. Or the three posters. Or that you’re going to marry him.”

Ginny buried her head in the pillow. “I was 8, he was cute, and he a walk-off grand slam in the eleventh against the Yankees. Can you please let it go?”

Her dad pulled the pillow away and gave her a serious look. “Of course I can, baby. But if you think your brother’s going to stop putting ring boxes from Mike Lawson under the Christmas tree, you’ve got another thing coming.”

\--

A month later, Ginny readjusted her bag as she walked out of the airport. Pops had warned her Arizona has hot, but she wasn’t prepared for how dry it was. Still, she was Ginny Baker, a future all-star, she could handle a little soul-sucking heat. Glancing around, Ginny noted a few other kids with baseball gear and headed in the same direction. Sure enough, there were two shuttles with Future All-Stars Training Camp emblazoned on the side. She took a deep breath and walked up to the clipboard-carrying minion the others were flocking to. . .

Only to be blocked by a frat-bro of tomorrow, complete with bleached blond hair and a polo with a popped collar. “Hey, babe. I’m Aidan. I think you’re a little lost.”

Ginny raised an eye. “I don’t think I am.” She attempted to shoulder her way past him, only to be stopped by a distressingly strong grip on her wrist.

Aidan continued to leer at her, gaze fixed firmly on her boobs. Why did she just wear a sports bra under her hoodie? “Yeah, girl. This is the MLB future all-stars camp. High school students today, hall-of-famers tomorrow. But I’d love to meet up with you for a drink or something else.”

Fed up with his antics, Ginny gave him the iciest glare she could manage in the Arizona sun. “Then I was right. I am in the right place.” She turned towards Clipboard Minion. “Excuse me! Hi, I’m Ginny Baker. I need to check in.”

Clipboard Minion nearly dropped his clipboard, rapidly cycling through shock, panic, and anxiety. “Miss Baker, of course. We are so thrilled to have you here. Really, it’s an honor.”

Aidan finally let go of her arm. “She’s a camper? Seriously? I thought this was for the best ballplayers, not blowjobs.”

Ginny hefted her bag onto her back and gave him cruel smirk. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Clipboard Minion was at her side in an instant. “I am so sorry about that. He will be dealt with, I assure you. Aidan, bus, now, and this will be reported.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “You’re on the first bus. This is the schedule, map, rules of conduct, and room assignments. Don’t panic that your names not on there. You’re sharing with Monica, the coordinating assistant. I made sure to note that on yours alone, so the Aidans won’t be able to hassle you.”

She mutely took the papers and started to look through them. She boarded the bus, but turned  
at the last second. Ginny needed to make things clear. “Thanks for all this, I appreciate the room secrecy. But you don’t need to coddle me. I’ve been playing with guys all my life. I’ve got it down.”

Clipboard Minion gave her a pitying look. “Miss Baker, I’m not trying to hand-hold you because you’re a girl. I’m trying to ensure the most beautiful screwgie I’ve ever seen gets thrown in the majors.”

  
\--

The next day, Ginny took the field with the 6 other pitchers. The bus ride had been noisy, and Monica the Coordinating Assistant had never materialized. Breakfast had been good though. Aidan has made comments about her ball-handling skills, but the other pitchers had formed their own table and pulled her into their group. Add in that Tyrone James, a center-fielder she’d played against-- and lost to-- in the quarter-finals had started whispering about her killer screwball, and things were looking up.

“Baker! Over here!” called out Zeke, one of her fellows. She strolled over, working her glove. “Did you hear who we’re working with?’ he asked amiably, tossing a cutter right down the middle.

Ginny caught it with ease before returning her own, much shakier cutter. “No, I missed the invite to last nights’ slumber party. You guys just gossip or did any nail-painting and bra-sharing get done?” She plopped down on the grass and began to stretch, Zeke and the others joining her.

Sammy, a joker from Detroit, held out his hands. “As a matter of fact, yes.” he said, showing off his blue-and-orange striped nails. “Pro tip: don’t challenge Tyler Marshall to an eating contest. Or do, if you want a free manicure. But that’s not the news. The news is that a major league catcher got put on the DL to recover from a knee injury, and instead of chilling by his pool, he’s going to be here for the whole two months.”

Ginny looked over. “Are you serious? We get to work with an MLB catcher for two months, and you didn’t tell me this morning? What’s wrong with you assholes?” Ginny attempted to punch Zeke in the shoulder, but only succeeded in falling sideways.

Zeke looked offended as he gazed down at her. “Baker, there was bacon. Nothing else mattered.”

She huffed as she pulled herself upright. “I’ll give you that one. Any idea who it is?”

A tiger-striped nail entered her eyeline, pointing towards the catcher’s box. “See for yourself.”

Ginny looked over, and while his back was turned, she knew that silhouette. And, to be honest, that ass. A shit-eating grin broke out over her face as she processed this information. She willed her blush to fade as she faced her new friends. “We’re pitching to Mike Lawson?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny meets her idol, shows up some tools, and makes new friends. Yes, in that order.

Sammy and Zeke looked at Ginny, not even bothering to hide their grins; Zeke breaking first. “I guess we found out who Baker’s celebrity crush is. If we start a betting pool, we could make a killing.”

Sammy laughed. “Assuming she doesn’t give it away by blushing hard enough to cook an egg. Oh, too late. You do know he’s married, right?”

Ginny dropped her head and groaned. “It’s not like that. Seriously, it isn’t.” She added at their disbelieving faces. “Everyone has that one player, that childhood favorite who got them into the game and who they’d sell their soul to play with, right?” Both boys nodded, clearly thinking about their own dream teammate. “Lawson’s mine. Even if I never play in the majors, I’ll still have gotten to fulfill this one dream.” 

Expression thoughtful, Sammy stood up. “I get that.  You’re now guaranteed to play with your idol. It’s a shame that the impression you’ll leave with is ‘teenager with a pathetic crush’.”

Ginny glared up at him. “Well, I was going to try and impress him with the prettiest nails in camp, but you took that title. Guess I’ll have to settle by pitching him the first screwgie he’s seen since Byrd. Actually, no.” she said, standing up defiantly, “The impression I’m going to make is ‘the one person here ballsy enough to walk up to him instead of staring like girls at a Justin Bieber concert’.”

With that, Ginny turned from the gaping looks Zeke, Sammy, and the others were giving her. Lawson was talking to one of the other coaches, but he was clearly watching their group. She gave a sharp exhale, squared her shoulders, and walked towards the catcher’s box. Where Mike Lawson was standing. She could do this. She could totally do this.

She couldn’t do this.

Unfortunately, by the time Ginny realized that this was likely to end only in humiliation, she was five feet away and he’d clocked her approach. Just as she was deciding on whether she’d rather puke or faint, or maybe have the earth open up and swallow her whole, the unthinkable happened: Mike Lawson called out to her.

“Look what we got here. Ginny Baker in the flesh. I’ve been asking questions about you all morning.” Mike Lawson flashed Ginny an easy, gregarious smile. She almost melted under his gaze; the Arizona sky making his hazel eyes seem more green and highlighting the good-natured twinkle. “I mean, anyone who can throw a screwball is someone I want to see play.”

All thoughts of being calm and detached fled Ginny’s mind. Her brain rebooted at the realization that Mike freaking Lawson knew her name, and her pitch, and _wanted to see her play, Jesus Christ_. She opened her mouth, and after a horrifying moment where no sound emerged, she managed to speak. “I should tell you I have your rookie card. You’ve been my favorite player since I was eight.”

His grin got even wider. “Really? You have good taste, Baker. Now, you’re seventeen?” She nodded mutely, unsure of where he was going. “That makes you eight during my rookie year. Let me guess: it was the walk-off grand slam against the Yankees that won you over?”

“No! I mean, that was awesome, but anyone can do that.” Ginny babbled, wondering what demon was running her mouth. “It was a Nats game. Hoffman kept pushing for a changeup, but you called for a slider, which got the strike, and then went into a triple play that ended the game.”

Lawson stopped and studied her. Ginny tried to stand up straight, even though she felt like a bug under a microscope. She wondered if she was passing whatever test he was giving her. “I like you, kid. Let’s round up the rest of the munchkins and see what you all are made of.”

Lawson headed over to the other pitchers, Zeke and Sammy not even bothering to hide their attempts to eavesdrop. The others all scrambled to their feet, and Ginny realized that she was far from the only one here desperately trying to not humiliate herself. She also realized that, while of course he didn’t because age and minor and gender and age, she was kind of disappointed that, in flagrant violation of his reputation, Mike Lawson didn’t try to slap her ass.

\---

The next four hours were the most grueling of her entire life. Lawson hadn’t been joking when he said he wanted to see what the seven of them were made of. They all lined up to show off their ability-- or lack thereof-- to throw every pitch legal in the majors. Ginny’s fastball had gotten her the expected shittalk. She’d warmed to Jordan referring to it as her mediumball, but having her idol start in on her ten minutes after saying he liked her cut to the bone.

“Baker! You’re not even cracking 80. That’s one hell of a lollipop!” Lawson had called out. Zeke snickered, only to attract Lawson’s attention himself. “What are you laughing at, Bosquet? Yours may hit 95, but at least hers are in the strike zone.”

This had gone on all morning. Ginny’s changeup and slider had been deemed decent, and her split-finger “had potential, if she could overcome the lollipop problem”. Zeke turned out to have a wicked 4-seam fastball, while Sammy’s curveball was out of this world. Still, the others had started to snicker at her. She could feel the judgement, the question of just what she was doing here.

“All right. One last pitch, then you’re free for lunch.” Lawson proclaimed. Everyone perked up at the thought of food, Ginny included. He leaned back against the railing, ready for a side view of this last task. “Show me your screwballs.”

Everyone else stopped, utterly baffled. One poor kid tripped over his own feet in an attempt to face Lawson. “Umm, sir. None of us throw screwballs.” Ginny smirked. Apparently, he’d missed Tyrone’s whispers this morning.

Lawson looked him over, and while Ginny thought she’d passed that test, it seemed Clumsy Kid was found wanting. He walked over and offered a hand, but not after a deliberate pause first. Once he was on his feet, Lawson towered over him. “Are you sure about that?”

Clumsy Kid almost fell down again. Ginny sympathised. Mike Lawson’s gaze had the weight of an elephant or four. “Uhhh--”

“So, no. Not sure. Anyone else?” He turned and asked the group. “Do any of you know how to throw a screwball? Do any of you know if anyone else knows how to throw a screwball? Is it within the realm of possibility that, of the seven high school pitchers the MLB deemed the best in the country, one of you is here on the ability to throw a pitch so difficult and so draining that no one in the majors throws it?” Lawson paced around, making sure everyone got a share of the bubbling rage. Only Ginny, Zeke, and Sammy managed to meet his gaze, their knowledge giving them courage. “Alright, then. Baker, show them how it’s done.”

Ginny started to get into her stance, only to falter when she figured out what Lawson had really been doing. Rather than sitting on the sidelines, he’d picked up is catcher’s mask and glove, and was getting ready to squat in front of the target she’d been using previously. She was now pitching to Mike Lawson.

Somehow, and she had no idea how, so don’t ask, Ginny managed to pitch five flawless screwgies. They were easily the best pitches she’d ever thrown, and her only regret was that there wasn’t a batter there to get struck out. Even better, Lawson had caught them all. Most catchers had issues catching her screwgie, then blamed her for “pitching wild”. Lawson, though, demonstrated no more difficulty than if he was catching her lollipop fastball.

Lawson dropped the last ball and stood up. “Nice job, kid. You’ve got an hour for lunch, then be back here. I believe the pitching coaches are going to be digging into your stances.” He walked off. Ginny watched with a grin on her face. Four hours of seven pitchers each throwing over a dozen pitches, and she’d gotten the only out-and-out compliment.

\---

Lunch was served in the hotel; and according to the signs, repeated on a weekly schedule. Today was subs, so Ginny got her favorite- footlong italian, with ham, lettuce, and tomato-- and sat down. Zeke and Sammy immediately joined her; the other pitchers at their own table. She frowned when she realized the pitchers had formed two sub-cliques-- and two people had deliberately chosen hers.

“Why are you sitting with me?” She blurted out before she could stop herself. She immediately stuffed her face full of sandwich, so she could focus on not choking as opposed to their faces.

Zeke slung his arm around her. “Ginny, I confess that I’m here out of pure carnal desire. I’m sitting with you so I can endear myself to you, as a close personal friend. And then, once you’ve opened your heart to me, I will persuade you to share with me something you’ve never given anyone: the secret to throwing a screwball.”

Ginny stared in disbelief. “Zeke, you do know carnal mean sexual, right?”

“Of course I do. If it was physically possible, I’d fuck the shit out of your screwgie. Not you. Just the screwgie.” He told her as he popped a stray banana pepper in his mouth. “I prefer girls with more meat on their bones.”

Ginny laughed and pushed his arm off. “That explains Prince Charmless. What about you, Sammy?”.

Sammy looked down at his sandwich. No, his hands. No, his nails. “Let’s just say I figured hanging out with another outsider sounded better than waiting for the in-crowd to realize I’m not one of them.”

"Dude, I'm too hungry for mysteries. Just spit it out." Ginny sighed,

“You’re not the only first of your kind here. You just can’t hide it.” Sammy held his hands out and flexed them deliberately, drawing her eye to his nails. His bright, vibrantly painted nails that the others had given him some shit for, yet he didn’t seem in any rush to remove-- _oh_.

She smiled at him, trying to appear accepting without attracting attention. “We should try to get called up at the same time. One at a time, the media will eat us alive. Both of us splits the focus.”

He shot her a real grin, genuinely warm in comparison to his typical sly smirk. “Not a bad plan, Baker. That reminds me, I got something for you.” Sammy rooted in his bag before dumping a handful of dum-dums on the table. The smirk reappeared.

Ginny started at the candy in dismay. “The lollipop thing’s not going away, is it?”

Zeke and Sammy laughed, each one taking a sucker. “No, girl.” Zeke answered. “I don’t think it is.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Lawson is not happy to be on the disabled list, but at least the kids he's babysitting are entertaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Turns out, writing Mike is much harder than writing Ginny. Maybe it's because I've been a teenage girl, but I've never been a male sports star. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy!

No matter how hard he tried to block them out, the words “disabled list” kept ringing in Mike’s head. He knew his body, he knew when it was fine, and after the collision last game, he knew it was not fine. His knee was aching in new and exciting ways. Still, the look on Al’s face as he walked into his office damn near broke him.

Al sighed. “Look, Mike. The doctors were clear. That hit did some real damage to your ACL. It’s two months on the DL now or a season in El Paso next year.”

Mike rubbed his hand over his face. “Called that one, skip. At least I can take Rachel on a slightly less belated honeymoon.”

Laughter filled the office. “She already on you about that?”

“She was checking flights to Tahiti while I was in the hospital.” Mike deadpanned. If it was up to him, they wouldn’t have gotten married until the off-season, but Rachel had had her heart set on a spring wedding, and Mike hadn’t had it in him to deny her.

“Well, if you haven’t booked your flight yet, there’s another option for your downtime. Future All-stars starts in a week.” Al put the offer out casually, but Mike had been playing under him for close to a decade. He knew when his skipper had something up his sleeve.

He fixed Al with his cool glare, the same once-over he used to unnerve hitters. “You want me to give up two months with my wife in a bikini to teach kids how to catch a fastball? You been hitting the not-secret whiskey again?”

Letting loose a long-suffering sigh, Al tossed a folder on the desk. Mike picked it up and gave it a cursory scan. Lollipop fastball, even for a kid, but he had a good record this season, so he could handle pressure, wait. Mike looked up. “You found someone who throws a screwgie? How is MLB not all over this kid?”

“Figures you’d zero in on the miracle and miss the problem.” Al grumbled. “Check the name, genius.”

Mike did so, returning his attention to other, more superfluous, information. Baker. . . Guinivere? “There’s a girl headed to Future All-Stars? Women have played high school, a few good ones in the NCAA, but this is . . . big.”

With a grimace, Al pulled his not-secret whiskey out of his desk and poured two glasses. “That’s understating it. Look, three of our scouts have seen Ginny Baker. They swear she’s got what it takes to make it to the show, but she’s a girl. I’m afraid they’re seeing an exceptionality because they want to see it. She’s a great high school pitcher, but--

“Doesn’t mean she can hack it in the majors. Even if she’s got the skills, first woman in the MLB would come with a pressure I cannot imagine.” Mike, giving the dossier a closer read, noticed something. “Her dad played?”

A nod. “Career minor-leaguer; had his daughter playing since birth. Which is another concern: does she even want this or is she trying to make her old man happy.” Al emptied his glass, giving the bottle a longing look before putting it away. “I’m not dead-set against a woman in the majors. Show me a girl who can play like A-Rod, I’ll sign her in a heartbeat. But if Ginny Baker doesn’t have the drive, the skills, or especially the grit to make it, put her out of her misery and push her towards college ball. Be better for everyone.”

\---

One week later, Mike was settling onto his hotel room couch, TV ready for the Padres game and six-pack in the fridge. He’d just gotten his ice pack positioned when his phone rang, forcing him to get up and undo all his hard work.

Glancing at the screen, he accepted the call. “Don’t you have a game to prepare for?”

Al grunted. “Away game, everyone’s already here and warming up because there’s nothing else to do. A week in Hawaii erase your memory?”

With a grimace as the ice hit, Mike shot back. “No, but it made my wife slightly less homicidal. Now she’ll only probably kill me in my sleep for ruining her honeymoon plans.”

“Didn’t tell her about the girl?”

“And subject a 17-year-old from Nowhere, North Carolina to Rachel in full feminista mode, complete with cameras and a TV special? No way Baker deserves that.” Mike loved his wife, but he wasn’t stupid. “Honestly, kid put in the best showing today. Screwgie’s a little rough, but a couple more years, it’ll belong next to the Mona Lisa.”

The sigh echoed down the line. Mike knew Al was an old-fashioned man, but he wasn’t about to lie just to keep his outdated views on women athletes alive. “And her attitude?”

Mike took a long pull from his beer and grinned. “Girl has the biggest balls among the pitchers. Six of them just stared at me like teenage girls at that guy from Twilight; she walks right up to introduce herself. Her, Ramierez, and first baseman named Eddie get credit for that.”

“Speaking of walks” Al said “Any thoughts on how to handle the Braves tonight?” Mike leaned back and began to talk shop, captain and catcher to coach.

\---

Over the next month, Mike gave pep talks, corrected stances, and lectured on the importance of communication between pitchers and catchers to both halves of the equation. Mostly, though, he watched. He watched a few self-important blowhards get taken down, a shy kid from Ohio flourish into a promising clean-up man, and a girl shut down every asshole who leered at her.

Baker was something else. She had a relentless drive matched by few others, a cold way of shutting down comments by making it clear they’d been heard and discarded. Mike had to say, a couple more years, some seasoning in the minors, and the kid had a shot at making it to the big leagues.

Assuming she didn’t cripple herself in the process.

Mike had noticed the frequency with which she threw her screwgie, and asked the pitching staff to see the hard numbers. He frowned as he examined them, his smugness about being right buried under his annoyance at what he was right about. With a sigh, he called out to the head pitching coach. “I’m taking Baker this afternoon.”

Jepson walked over. “Look, I know you’re a big-shot player and I’m just a lowly minion, but you cannot take people whenever you want.”

Mike handed over the tablet. “I just want to talk to her about her frequency; hopefully get it nipped in the bud. Not to undermine you, but it’s a problem.

Glancing at the screen, he sighed. “We’ve talked to her a dozen times, but nothing seems to sink in. What makes you think you’ve got a shot?”

Mike gave the other man a rueful look. “You’re telling a girl playing a boys sport that she needs to stop doing the one thing that has likely been drilled into her as her only shot of making it as a professional athlete. I’m not surprised she ignored you; I would have, too. I’m hoping the “hit the brakes while you still have ligaments” talk will sink in coming from a player rather than a minion.”

Jepson exhaled sharply. “Worth a shot, man. I’d hate to see her flame out. Baker” he called out as the munchkins returned from lunch. “You’re with Lawson. Everyone else, outfield.”

Baker looked nervous as she approached. “Yes?”

“Glove off and grab your bat, we’re headed to the cages.” Mike told her.

She did as instructed, confusion apparent. “Umm, I know I’m not the best hitter, but am I really that bad?”

Mike shot her a smirk as they headed towards the batting cage. “No, kid. This isn’t about your batting at all. I just find it helpful to have a built-in rage outlet when I’m stuck having conversations I don’t want to have, and I thought it might help you through this.”

He ushered her into the cage, not surprised when she turned on him, hate and betrayal in her eyes. “Let me guess, I need to give up my dream of the majors and settle for a free education and a CWS championship?”

“No.” Mike started the machine, but Ginny was so surprised she completely missed the first ball.

“Then what-”

“Guinevere Anne Baker,” he started, his tone heavy and imposing. “You need to lay off your goddamn screwball, and you need to do it now.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Mike have a heart to heart. Ginny, Sammy and Zeke have a heart to heart about the heart to heart.

“Guinevere Anne Baker, you need to lay off your goddamn screwball, and you need to do it now.”

Ginny felt the world fall apart under her feet. Mike Lawson, her idol, who treated her like any other pitcher, unusual only for her skill set, was spitting the same bullshit the other trainers were.

She gripped her bat and swung at the next ball, feeling a momentary relief as the bat connected, her rage temporarily sated. 

But only temporarily. She turned to him, tears of rage forming. “Fuck you. Just . . . fuck you. You want to keep me out of the majors, I get it, but at least have the decency to push me towards the NCAA; don’t tell me to stop doing the one thing that could me to the show or college. I honestly don’t know which way I’m going, but I know my screwgie is what’s gonna get me there. Fuck you.”

She waited in silence, practicing her swing. She hit a few more, but mostly, she was trying to keep from crying too obviously. After ten minutes, Mike turned off the machine. 

He turned to her. “Baker, I’m talking to you one ballplayer to another. No bullshit. If you were a rookie on the Padres, we’d be having this same talk. Understand?”

Ginny felt the weight of his gaze again, the same way she had when she’d first walked up to him. This time, though, she didn’t feel scrutinized, but seen. “Yeah.”

“If you keep playing the way you play now,” he told her, “You probably won’t make it to the show. And if you do, it’ll be for barely a season. And that won’t be because you’re a woman, but because your arm will have been destroyed. Screwballs aren’t rare because they’re hard, it’s because they’re draining. Pitching one regularly makes tommy john surgery a question of when, not if.”

Ginny scoffed. “I know that, which is why I don’t throw a normal screwball. It’s a special way my dad taught me--

“No pressure on index and ring fingers, I’ve noticed.” Mike finished. “And yeah, that lessens the strain of the screwball, but Baker, it doesn’t get rid of it. Especially given how much you throw that screwgie. It’s your best, but you throw it so much more than anything else. I get it’s your go-to, but you need to go to it less.”

“No, I don’t!” Ginny yelled. “Yeah, my arm gets a little twingy when my pitch count gets up there, but it’s a little problem. I can handle it!.”

“Baker, do you know why I’m here and not with the Padres?” Mike asked, apparently unphased by her outburst.

“Uh, yes?” She was thrown by the sudden subject change. “You’re on the DL. Hit in the Braves game.”

“Yes, Baker, I am on the DL. Here’s the catch: I could be playing right now. Ibuprofen, extra ice, I could easily grit my way through the season. It’s a little problem.”

“Then why--”

“Because if I did that, Baker, I’d be spending next year in triple A as I recovered from the long-term strain on an injured knee. Pain is not weakness, it’s a warning. When you ignore a little problem, it becomes a big one. The kind that involves surgery, and therapy, and a very small chance of pitching again. I think you’re gonna make it to the majors. I just don’t want you to flame out once you get there.”

Understanding washed over Ginny like a tidal wave. The reason people here were pushing her to change wasn’t because they didn’t believe in her now, it was to support her later. Her Pops always wanted her to make it to the show, but this man, he was telling her how to stay there.

Suddenly exhausted, Ginny collapsed onto the floor, banging her head on the wall behind her. “The whole reason Pops taught me the screwball was because I can’t keep up on strength alone.”

Mike grabbed a water bottle and handed it over, taking a spot on the floor next to her. “You’re right about that. Example A, your lollipop fastball.” 

She chuckled, before taking a long drink of water. With a sharp exhale, Ginny looked up at Mike. “So, ballplayer to ballplayer, what do I do?”

He gave her a smug grin. “I am glad you asked, rookie. You pitch smart, not hard.” 

“And I do this by. . .” Ginny trailed off, waiting for Mike to fill in the very large blanks.

“Reduce your telegraphing. Learn to fake your entries. Expand your repertoire. Don’t be afraid to throw pitches that aren’t perfect. Sure, four out of five hitters can get your curveball, but that doesn’t matter when the guy at bat can’t hit one to save his life.” Mike told her. The speed with which he did so told Ginny he’d thought about how she needed to play. Mike Lawson really thought she could play in the majors.

She took a deep breath. “So, play head games and go the jack of all trades route?”

“Pretty much, rook. You can still throw your screwgie. It’s gorgeous. Bases loaded, tough hitter, go ahead. But don’t overdue it.” He stood up and offered her a hand. “Oh, and maybe learn to throw a knuckleball.”

Ginny took his hand and pulled herself up. comforted by the steadiness when she felt so askew. “Isn’t that a slow pitch?”

“Sure is. Vanished when the radar gun became a staple of baseball. It’s hard, but it puts very little strain on the arm. Tricky to hit, too, particularly since nobody throws them.” Mike grinned at her, a bright twinkle in his eye. “Be interesting if a major league prospect pulled that out of their hat.”

She met his smile with her own. “ I don’t suppose you’d know anybody who could teach a girl how to throw one?

“Whadda know?” He dug in his bag, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to her. Ginny opened it to see names and phone numbers. “I have a list right here.”

\---

Later that night, Ginny waited for Sammy and Zeke. Ginny was effectively roommate free due to Monica’s local boyfriend, leaving the guys to declare her room the place to hang. Pulling out their hidden stash of chips, chocolate, and cheap vodka, Ginny grabbed a glass and poured herself a drink. After today, she needed something to numb her.

Hearing the knock at the door, she opened it while draining her glass. Sammy and Zeke both looked at her with concern, then pushed past her and shut the door before anyone noticed them.

“Are you okay?” Sammy asked, voice weary, while Ginny poured more vodka into her cup. “And do you maybe want some orange juice with your booze?”

She knocked back her glass, then went for the chips. “I’m fine, Sammy. I mean, my childhood icon told me that if I keep throwing my screwgie, I’ll mangle myself so bad that my major league career will subsist of nothing more than being the answer to a trivia question, but why would that bother me?”

With that, Ginny melted to the floor, suddenly unable to keep herself upright for the second time today. Zeke and Sammy dropped to either side, wrapping her in a tight bear hug.

“Gin” Zeke started, “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine hearing anything worse.”

“Same, girl.” Sammy leaned his head on her shoulder. “You gonna eat those chips?”

Zeke and Ginny both smacked him, but the mood was successfully lightened. “Look at it this way,” he mumbled around a mouthful of chips “You were gonna hear this eventually. Minors, majors, NCAA, this was apparently inevitable. But now, you’ve heard it early enough to fix it.”

“I guess. And Mike did have advice for how to adjust my style. He thinks I should go the jack-of-all-trades route.” Ginny sighed. “And he thinks I should learn to throw a knuckleball.”

Zeke drank from his own cup, a mixture of orange soda, tquelia, and squirt. “Of course he had a plan. He wasn’t going to throw his favorite student to the wolves. Did he have a list of coaches for the knuckleball thing?”

“Yeah. And I’m not his favorite. He’d do it for anyone else.” Ginny retorted.

The boys looked at her in disbelief before draining their glasses. “Zeke, you think this explains why she’s convinced no boy will date her?”

“Probably. Ginny, he’s always watching you, giving you tips, talking to your trainors. The screwgie thing, the coaches have been telling you that for a week. I’ve heard them. And he took it upon himself to make sure you got the memo, came up with a new strategy, and found people who can teach you to throw pitch that hasn’t been common since the 40s.” Zeke told her. “You are totally his favorite.”

Ginny stared. “Really? He told me he thought I’d make it, but I thought it was flattery.”

Sammy smiled and tossed her the remote. “No. You’ve gotten yourself a bona fide MLB mentor, you lucky bitch. Now, in recognition of your hard day, we will indulge your love of 90s sketch comedy. Hit it!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike promises to be there for Ginny as she faces the road ahead of her. That road is much worse than he'd imagined.

The next month was a blur for Mike. Between his actual role in aiding the catchers’ development, long-distance captaining the Padres, long-distance marriage, and ensuring Baker had a halfway decent knuckleball before she was returned to her tyrant of a father, the last month of Future All-Stars flew by. More shocking, though, was the realization that he enjoyed coaching. He’d always planned on moving into sports broadcasting after the inevitable end of his playing career, but Mike found coaching to be something he got a real sense of satisfaction from, in addition to being surprisingly good at. He’d have to rethink phase 2, but that could wait until the off-season. This could not.

 

Walking through the camp grounds, he wasn’t surprised to see Baker, Bosquet, and Ramierez huddled together in a corner for the farewell lunch. The three of them rarely interacted with the other pitchers, let alone any of the other kids. Baker and Ramierez probably isolated themselves out of self-defense, and Bosquet seemed the loyal type. Their phones were out, and he could practically hear the excited swap of numbers and eager plans to stay in touch. Those three had formed a bond over baseball, late nights, and mastering the art of playing with a hangover. Mike knew he should have ratted them out the first time they stumbled into practice reeking of cheap booze, but as far as he was concerned, they were simply mastering a vital skill in professional baseball.

 

“Well, if it isn’t the three musketeers. You all finished giggling like teenage girls leaving cheer camp?” He sauntered up to them. 

 

Baker flashed him a sly grin. “Given that I am a teenage girl, no.” She gave a her ponytail and dramatic toss and adopted a horrible valley girl accent. “So, Kelly and I got into such a fight because she was insisting that Joe was the hottest Jonas Brother, when it’s so obviously Nick.”

 

Bosquet immediately matched her. “I don’t even know why you’re stressing. She wears last months shoes, therefore her opinion is worthless.”

 

Mike pulled off his sunglasses. “Very funny. If baseball doesn’t work out, you should consider comedy. But seriously, I need to borrow Baker for five minutes. Come on.”

 

Baker stood up, grabbing her glove out of habit. “One last round of knuckleballs?”

 

“Not quite.” Mike led her into the bleachers and had her sit down. “Got you something.” With that, Mike handed over the tube he’d tucked there earlier. 

 

Baker’s jaw dropped as she unrolled it; a signed poster from his rookie year. “Oh my god, thank you!?”

 

“Hey, everyone should have a signed poster of their favorite player. Besides, when you get to the majors, I’ll be able to brag about being your idol.” Mike gave her a cheeky grin. “I also want to give you this.”

 

He handed her a slip of paper, blank except for a 10-digit string of numbers. At her confused look, he clapped her on the shoulder. “That’s my personal cell number. About 2 dozen people have it, and most of them are Padres or work for the team, so don’t put it all over MySpace.”

 

She looked at him in disgust. “No one uses MySpace, grandpa, but I’ll avoid plastering it on Facebook.” There was a quiet minute before she asked the obvious question. “Why?”

 

Mike met her gaze, determined to treat her like a ballplayer, not a kid, even if she was one. “You’re about to start a hard year. The choices you make will determine your entire life. College or the minors. Small but safe or high-risk, high reward. Do you keep the screwgie or change your style. And everyone around you is going to tell you there’s one right way to live, and they’ll be saying something different. That’s the standard for an MLB prospect, and it’s hard enough.”

 

“But you’re a woman, which will make everything much harder. People will be trying to mold you into what they think you should be, what a woman in a male sport should be, damn what you want. So when you start cracking under the pressure, which you will, we all do” he said, cutting off her indignant look, “You call me. Doesn’t matter if you need career advice, playing help, or just to unload on someone who won’t tell you what to do, call me.”

 

He could see the tears forming in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say. I always felt like it was me and my dad against the world, but he has this path set for me. You promise you won’t, I don’t know, yell at me if I go to college?”

 

“Kid, the best player on my high school team is pastry chef in Seattle. He had the skills, but couldn’t fathom living under that pressure.” Mike told her. “You gotta live life for you. If you decide you don’t want to be the female Jackie Robinson, I won’t blame you. Either way, you’re facing a fight. Just know you’ve got someone in your corner.”

 

\---

 

In the 10 months since that day, he’d gotten a handful of calls from Baker. One was almost immediate, and very expected. Her father was a controlling man, and he hadn’t been happy to see his daughter abandoning his style. She’d been in hysterics, and it took Mike nearly an hour to calm her down.

 

She’d called him when the University of North Carolina offered her a full ride, and again when it looked like her high school team was going to finish with a losing season, and every insecurity she’d ever had crashed over her. 

 

The most recent phone call had been three days ago, when she was getting ready to pitch in the state championships, her future on the line and her coach and father both insisting she throw the screwgie and nothing else. 

 

The most entertaining was the panicky phone call when Sam Marchand, who was, quote, “the sexist guy in Tarboro” showed up to her house and asked her to prom. Baker had apparently said let out a shriek of terror, slammed the door, and locked herself in her bathroom before calling Mike.

 

Luckily, he was at couple’s night, so he was able to pass the phone over to a couple of the WAGs. Amy and Kiera successfully talked Ginny down, then gave her their numbers when she blurted out that she didn’t have any girlfriends.

 

Judging by the pictures they’d had Salvi and Jason show him, she had a great time.

 

Now, though, he was actively waiting for a call. Al had let him know that short of choking epically, the scouts would be offering her a contract as soon as the championship game ended. Mike was fairly certain she’d accept the Padres offer, even if she received others-- even without the lure of playing with her idol, he doubted the other teams would give her terms as fair as theirs. The Twins, the Mets, they talked to her with ‘ifs’. The Padres used “whens”.

 

Still, after a rousing game against the Braves, he found himself checking his phone anxiously all through the celebratory drinks. The boys tried to give him grief, but the older players understood: she was his protégé, and he wanted to congratulate her on passing this step. Once it was past midnight, though, he figured she’d worn herself out celebrating and would call him tomorrow. 

 

Just as he was getting ready to call it a night, his phone lit up.  _ Baker _ flashed on the screen. “About time, kid. You forgetting about the people who helped you already?”

 

“Sir, do you know a Guinievere Baker?” a strange male voice asked. 

 

“Yes. Who are you?” he asked, suspicious lacing his tone. 

 

“Sergeant James Middlebough of the North Carolina State Highway Patrol. Ms. Baker and her father were involved in a head-on collision, and we’re searching her contacts for someone who can meet her at the hospital.” The man said flatly. “Her mother’s phone’s off and her brother won’t pick up. You’re her last emergency contact.”

 

Mike sat up. “What about her father? How’s he?”

 

“Mr. Baker died on impact, which is why we are desperate to find someone. We don’t want to leave her alone after that.”

 

“Jesus.” Mike ran a hand over his face. “Text the hospital address to this number, and I’ll be there in three hours.”

He hung up, before immediately calling Al. “Where’s the closed car rental agency? I need to go to North Carolina.”

 

Al sighed. “Look, I get that you have a soft spot for the girl, and no doubt want to toast her state championship and signing with the Padres, but Mike, you cannot run off in the middle of a road trip--”

 

“I just got a call from the highway patrol. Car accident, her dad’s DOA, and her mom and brother won’t pick up. She’s a kid who had everything and then had her world ripped apart and now she’s alone.” Mike barked.

 

“Christ. Poor girl. Yeah, go ahead.” Al reluctantly agreed. 

 

Mike didn’t want to guess how many traffic laws he broke getting to North Carolina, but gun to his head, he’d say all of them. Two hours later, he strode into the ER, a man on a mission. “Hi, I’m looking for Ginny Baker.” 

 

Something in his tone must have made it clear that Mike’s patience was gone, because the nurse, just pointed him towards an exam room. “Baker?” he asked. 

 

She was a mess. Her arm-- left, thank god-- was in a sling, and her face was awash in cuts, that a young nurse was diligently removing glass from. Her eyes weren’t bloodshot, and Mike had the feeling the reason she wasn’t crying was because her father’s death had yet to become real.

 

“Mike?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

 

He forced a grin onto his face. “What do you think, kid? I’m your emergency contact.” 

 

She let out a sharp huff of laughter. “Oh, god. I forgot I did that. I’m so sorry.”

 

He sat in the chair across from her as the nurses finished up and left. “It’s alright. The cops couldn’t get your mom or your brother on the phone. You’re just lucky we’re in Atlanta and not Toronto.”

 

“I guess.” She went quiet for a few minutes. “I signed with the Padres. I’m going to Fort Wayne in three days.”

 

“Straight to Fort Wayne? You must have put on one hell of a show tonight.” Mike remarked. “You throw a no-hitter?”

 

“No. It was the bottom of the ninth, we’re up by 1, with one out, second’s loaded. The best hitter in North Carolina steps up to the plate.” She recounted.

 

“Tough place to be in.” Mike lamented.

 

“It was. But I took a deep breath, threw a knuckleball, then another knuckleball, and I could see on his face that after that second strike, he’d figured out how to hit my knucklers. So when Charles called for a third, I threw the best screwgie I’d ever thrown.” She said, pride radiating from her. “He went out, then a double play, and we won. The scouts cornered me on the field, and I think . . . I think my dad was actually proud of me.”

 

Just as Mike had anticipated, the reality of the situation washed over Ginny like a wave. She broke down sobbing, her words devolving into gibberish. He stood up and sat next to her on the table, holding her as she soaked his shirt. She cried until there was no moisture left in her body, and then she cried still; harsh, dry sobs that broke his heart. 

 

He stayed with her for another day, her mother being out of contact for such a long time that Mike was seriously concerned.That is, until Baker tartly informed him that her mom had been cheating on her dad for years, and was probably with her boyfriend. Mike was furious until Janet Baker actually arrived to pick up her daughter, and Mike knew the guilt and self-loathing this woman would inflict upon herself far outweighed anything he could do. 

 

So, he simply gave Baker a last hug, told her to knock them dead in Indiana, and called the Tin Caps coach personally to explain why Ginny Baker would be arriving a week later than expected. As he ended the call, Mike took one last glance at Baker. She met his gaze, and gave a half-hearted wave. Just as Mike returned to Atlanta, his phone lit up with text.

 

_ From: Baker _

Don’t worry about me, old man. I ain’t done nothing yet.

 

Mike chuckled as we walked into the hotel, slapping Salvatore on the back. No, he figured, no she hadn’t.


End file.
